


The Mess I've Made

by LourdesDeath



Series: The Light That in Us Burns [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gellert Grindelwald is a bastard, Hurt No Comfort, Impregnation, M/M, Not so immaculate conception, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 06:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LourdesDeath/pseuds/LourdesDeath
Summary: Credence says he'll do anything for Mister Graves if it means he'll be free, but he isn't prepared for what 'anything' entails.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. Here there be sadness.

The flask glows in the dark alleyway like a light, like a night sky with only the moon to brighten it.

“What are you willing to do to join wizarding society?” Mister Graves asks.

“Anything,” Credence answers, and it must be what Mister Graves wanted to hear, because he presses it into Credence’s hands without another word, and watches intently as he pulls the stopper out and begins to drink.

It tastes like sweet milk, and Credence wonders when he last drank milk.

Mister Graves reaches out for him when he’s swallowed every drop. “Good boy.” His fingers touch the corner of Credence’s jaw, slide to his chin to lift it.

“What… What was it?” Credence asks.

He’s pretty sure he sees Mister Graves’s teeth flash in the darkness. “You’ll see soon enough,” he says, and disappears.

Credence’s pelvis starts to hurt as he walks home, but he ignores it. It’s no worse than the ache on his back and hands, and his Ma will ask what he was up to if she notices.

He wakes up in the middle of the night with a scream caught in his throat. Agony tears through him like a knife, and he shoves his fingers into his mouth to keep from making a sound. He writhes under his thin blanket when the pain returns.

Credence manages to kick off his sheet and sit up. There’s no blood between his legs, although that’s where the pain is coming from.

That, at least, is a relief. He wouldn’t be able to explain blood when his Ma found it.

Maybe… Maybe this is his punishment for getting involved with Mister Graves. Magic is wrong in God’s eyes, and yet he’s willfully choosing it, choosing to approach temptation over righteousness.

Panting, he reaches under his pillow and finds his worn, wooden rosary. Most of the beads are cracked and half of the crucifix has needed to be glued back on, but the feeling of it in his hand is familiar and calming.

He prays until the pain passes enough to fall asleep, the rosary still curled around his fingers.

His nights pass the same way for the rest of the week, he awakens long after the house is silent, feeling like half his body is being torn apart.

On the fifth night, he hears his Ma’s door open and has to hold his pillow over his face to keep quiet. She won’t like it if she hears him—spending a night crying is always made worse when he wakes up to a belting from his Ma.

Six days after he drinks from the flask, Mister Graves finds him again.

His eyes travel over Credence’s body, and Credence can’t help cowering away from him, clutching his stack of pamphlets to his chest like they can protect him.

Mister Graves doesn’t let him get far. In only a few seconds, he’s close enough to touch.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Credence bites his tongue. Mister Graves will think he’s ungrateful, that he doesn’t appreciate what he’s been offered, if he says it’s been hurting him.

Or worse, he’ll think Credence is too weak to help him any longer.

He gasps when Mister Graves lays a hand on his stomach. He’s felt a weight there all day, a weight he can’t explain.

Mister Graves bears his teeth. “Perfect,” he says, and Credence feels a rush of air.

When the world stops spinning, they’re in a house. Mister Graves tears the pamphlets from his hands and lets them flutter to the floor. Credence’s eyes go wide at that, and even wider when Mister Graves grabs him by the shoulders and smashes their lips together.

Mister Graves is stronger than him, trapping Credence against his chest as his tongue laps at Credence’s mouth, and Credence said he’d do anything—he can’t take that back now.

He knows how important kisses are, how they shouldn’t be given to just _anyone_ , only people who are married or who plan to be soon. He can’t marry a man—even a man like Mister Graves—and his Ma will know that Credence was kissing him.

Something hard digs into his hip as Mister Graves’s teeth close around his lower lip; Mister Graves holds him captive as he grinds them together.

Credence is still torn between staying still and trying to fight off Mister Graves’s touches when he’s thrown to the floor. Mister Graves pulls his wand from his pocket and points it at Credence.

“ _Intectus_ ,” he says, and Credence feels his clothes dripping off of him like water. They fall to the floor, great cuts in them from the spell, and he feels his throat tighten with fear. What will his Ma think when his clothes are destroyed? How will he even get home?

Mister Graves snaps to regain his attention. “On your knees,” he says, pointing instead of saying that Credence should settle himself at his feet.

Credence tries to cover himself with his hands as he stares up at the man. He still can’t quite believe that his clothes are ruined, that he can no longer leave.

Mister Graves growls at his hesitation and grabs him by the hair. Credence attempts to crawl as he’s dragged across the floor, but he still feels his hair being yanked out with every step.

“When I tell you come here, it isn’t a suggestion,” Mister Graves says, hauling Credence towards an open door.

He’s learned his lesson: Credence takes his place between Mister Graves’s feet the second he’s released. His eyes are on level with the bulge in the man’s trousers, and he can’t seem to look away as hands undo the buttons and pulls out his—

Credence swallows as it dawns on him why he’s naked, why Mister Graves has brought him to his home, what he agreed to when he said _anything_.

“Open your mouth,” Mister Graves says, and he’s too terrified of the consequences to disobey again.

He parts his lips and lets his jaw fall open as far as possible and closes his eyes, knowing what’s coming.

Mister Graves taps his wand against Credence’s jaw. “ _Hisco_.”

Something touches his skin after Mister Graves pulls his wand away. It slithers around the back of his head and slips between both corners of his parted lips. His jaw is forced open further, the thing locking it in position.

 Mister Graves smirks down at him and cradles his head in one hand. His other hand strokes the hard flesh that’s only a few inches from Credence’s lips. A drop of fluid gathers at the tip.

Credence tries to beg with his eyes, but he’s agreed to this.

After a final stroke, Mister Graves starts feeding his cock into Credence’s mouth. Credence tastes the man’s skin, salty and bitter, as it brushes against his tongue.

But Mister Graves pushes further and further into him. His stomach turns when it brushes his soft palate; Mister Graves grabs his head with his other hand and, with one mighty thrust, slams into Credence’s throat.

Credence chokes around the intrusion. For once, he’s happy he hasn’t been allowed to eat all day: he’s certain he’d be sick if there was any food in his stomach. He doesn’t mean to try and pull away, but it doesn’t matter because Mister Graves keeps him pinned to his hips, his nose buried in a patch of dark hair, for several long moments.

When Mister Graves pulls back out, Credence feels a wave of thick saliva follow and pour down his chin. He coughs twice before Mister Graves is plunging into him again.

He tries his best to breathe between Mister Graves’s thrusts, to keep the rebellion of his stomach under control as he’s held in place, too afraid to try and fight.

Credence’s face is a mess of spit and tears when Mister Graves finally shoves him to the floor again.

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he says, and Credence feels his jaw as it’s released.

He coughs again, trying not to be sick all over the floor. Wrapping his arms around his naked form does nothing to comfort himself—Mister Graves is still in the room and soon he’ll…

Credence looks up at the man, and sees that he’s shed his coat and jacket, and that his tie has been undone. There’s nothing Credence can do to stop this—he _agreed_ to it—but that doesn’t mean he’s not frightened.

Mister Graves stares down at him the way Ma does when she’s holding his belt, just before the first strike of it on his skin. His fingers undo the buttons of his waistcoat before he tosses it onto the floor, the fine fabric crumpling on the floor. He unbuttons his shirt one handed while he strokes himself, and Credence finds himself pushing himself away from the man until his back hits something soft and he can’t go any further.

Mister Graves’s chest is muscular, sculpted in a way that Credence’s own scrawny form could never hope to be. His shirt hangs open as he holds out a hand.

Something flies into the room to be caught in Mister Graves’s hand. Credence curls up tighter when he sees it’s his own belt. The bloodstains are almost invisible in the darkness of the room.

Credence claps a hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet, but noises escape him anyway because Mister Graves is walking towards him with the belt in his hand and he thought he’d be free of this, thought that freedom meant no more beltings.

Mister Graves says a word that has his wrists slamming together in front of him and then the belt is looping around them like a snake coiling around its prey. He yelps as he’s jerked to his feet and thrown face-down onto the bed.

Credence breathes in the scent of his belt, the barely-there smell of his own blood making him bite his lips. His Ma isn’t in the room, but he can feel her presence like he can feel God’s eyes on him when he sins. He won’t be able to explain this to her, won’t be able to repent for the sins he commits in this bed. If he couldn’t feel it cutting into the skin of his wrists, he’d think the belt was wrapped around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.

The bed shifts behind him and Credence’s legs are spread apart by rough hands. He tries to look over his shoulder, to beg Mister Graves not to do this, but a hand shoves his face into the comforter.

He closes his eyes and a prayer spills from his lips, the words passing silently into the dusty scent of the fabric when Mister Graves’s hands slide up his thighs.

“Hail the Redeemer, Lord Jesus, by whose work death is defeated, for salvation has now overflowed upon all of the world,” he whispers as something slides up and down the place between his legs. “Holy redeemer, our faith is reckoned to us sinners, now and in death, as righteous—”

The last syllable catches in his throat as something pushes into him. It feels bigger than anything that could ever fit inside him, like the Lord himself is tearing him open. He chokes just as much as he did before, trying his hardest not to scream and almost wishing Mister Graves would put something in his mouth to help him stay quiet.

Tears overflow from his eyes as the inexorable stretch burns through him.

Ma always said that hell is a pit of flames, a land where the light of God ignites sinners who run from him, and Credence thinks he may be there now.

Mister Graves’s hips press to his own, his body blanketed by the man’s. He usually likes when Mister Graves touches him, likes the feeling of security Mister Graves’s presence always gives, but now he prays for it to end.

He’s only given a moment of respite before Mister Graves pulls out of him and slams back in. Credence can’t tell if it’s worse or not, but it’s like a knife reentering a wound, tearing him open where he’s already bleeding.

Mister Graves breathes against his neck, his tongue leaving lines of cold on Credence’s neck that make him shiver. His lips close over his shoulder and Mister Graves sucks on him. His teeth join in, and bright spots of pain bloom over his skin.

A sob breaks forth from his lips. It _hurts_ , and Credence agreed to anything but not to _this_. He sniffles into the bedding and tries to silence himself, but it’s no use. He gasps for breath, his lungs refusing to fill with air under the crushing weight of Mister Graves on top of him. A wheeze catches in this throat and his body tenses up.

“Stop crying,” Mister Graves grunts at him, his hips still thrusting.

Credence shakes his head. He’s scared and in pain—more than he ever is with his Ma, even because at least he understands _why_ she does it to him. She wants him to stop being sinful, trying to fix him, but Mister Graves is supposed to help him and free him and instead he’s making it worse. He can escape his Ma, but he can’t escape hell.

Whimpering, he clings to the sheets. He can’t be fixed, he can’t be saved.

There’s a growl next to his ear.

“ _Silencio_ ,” Mister Graves hisses, and the noises from Credence’s throat cut off.

He can feel the vibrations in his chest from his weeping, but the sound is absent. He wonders if he’s been deafened, but he can still hear the wet noises of Mister Graves’s body slapping against his own.

Groaning, Mister Graves presses on his neck, keeping his face buried in the fabric until he can hardly breathe, and his movements go suddenly erratic.

Credence’s face goes hot when something spills into him, filling him with liquid. He shudders when Mister Graves releases him and pulls out, the fluid following him and dripping onto the bedding.

He hopes that it’s over, that Mister Graves will release him when the belt is untied from around his wrists, but he’s flipped over and Mister Graves plunges back into him, his teeth sinking into Credence’s neck.

Credence stops fighting, stops thinking or praying after that. This is his own fault, it’s what he deserves for being wicked and sinful.

He stares at the window, allowing Mister Graves to do with his body as he wishes, until the edges of them brighten with the dawn. He’s lost count of how many times Mister Graves has spilled into him, but he’s too tired and sore to care.

Eventually, Mister Graves gets off of the bed, and Credence can suddenly hear his own panting breaths again. He doesn’t move when Mister Graves leaves the room, but he jumps when his clothes are thrown at him, the slashes in them gone like they never existed.

“Get dressed.”

He follows the command, afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t. Mister Graves watches as he covers himself with layer after layer of fabric, his gaze stony.

Credence feels liquid drip down his thighs, soaking through his underwear and trousers. It makes him feel even dirtier.

He flinches when Mister Graves grabs him by the arm and a rush of air brings them back to the alley where Mister Graves gave him the glowing flask.

“What… What do I do now?” Credence asks.

“Find the child,” Mister Graves says, and vanishes in another rush of air.

Credence stares at the wall past where he’d been standing. The alley stinks of vomit and urine; he’s only making it filthier with his presence.

His Ma is pale with fury when he gets home. He can’t say where he’s been, can’t say what he did, and her lips thin into a line when he takes off his jacket for his belting and the bite marks are revealed.

Credence leans into every blow, knowing it’s what he deserves, even as his back is torn open and soaks his trousers and underwear further with blood.

Maybe, between Mister Graves and his Ma, he’ll be saved.

Hell would be a welcome relief, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> The prayer Credence says is the Ave Redemptor, which is apparently like the Protestant Hail Mary (I don't know, I was raised Catholic) and he shouldn't technically say if he also uses the Hail Mary, but I can't see him praying to a virgin saint while being raped.
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](lourdesdeath.tumblr.com)


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